


A Too-Soft Look at the Ritz

by rea_of_sunshine



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication Failure, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Drunk!Crowley, Friends to Lovers, I mean, I put M/M, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Canon, Snake!Crowley - Freeform, but technically they are non-binary, crowley is dumb, probably, so I also tagged it other, that's why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 16:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19816387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rea_of_sunshine/pseuds/rea_of_sunshine
Summary: "That was his routine, after all. Anytime the angel touched him, he mentally flogged himself for the past six thousand years of pining and drowned himself in alcohol. Aziraphale had taken his hand that afternoon on the park bench. A handshake to switch back, a too-soft look at the Ritz, and Crowley had ended up a snake wedged between a chair and a hard place.Imagine what sort of state he’d be in, later, what with Aziraphale clinging to him like that. Not that he wasn’t savoring every second of it."Or, the one where Crowley is a self-hating idiot who doesn't know that Aziraphale loves him.





	A Too-Soft Look at the Ritz

Of course, of all the bloody people— _beings,_ whatever—in all of the bloody world— _universe,_ whatever—it would be the primish tartan-wrapped angel who said he went too fast. That _would_ be who Crowley chose. Over and over again. Some vague connection sparked in his scotch-laden brain about the night they had become godfathers. Climbing every mountain over and over and over and over and etc., or something of the sort. His head fell forward against the sheen of his table, and his glasses crunched. 

“Fuck,” he huffed. Maybe for his glasses. Maybe because he was the one climbing the same Someone-damned mountain over and over and over and over and etc.. Or rather _not_ climbing him. Which seemed the bigger issue, in Crowley’s opinion. He threw the glasses aside, poured another glass, drank it, then threw the glass aside. Went for the bottle. 

Of course, it was only about the climbing, the sex, the naughty bits, if you will. Of course. That’s why he’d spent the last six thousand shodding years pining over the stupid angel who—Crowley knew from his own personal experience as an angel—didn’t even have the naughty bits unless he wanted them. Of course. 

That’s why he was there, drowning himself in scotch. Not because the angel had looked at him so soft when Crowley had toasted to the world at the Ritz earlier that his heart had threatened to burst. Not because he’d invited him back to his dusty old bookshop. Not because Crowley was a sap and agreed, and certainly not because while there, Aziraphale had said, _oh, you know I so love spending time with you,_ in that stupid little voice of his. It wasn’t fair how easily he said those types of things. How little it meant to Aziraphale. 

He plunked his forehead back down against the table, then rolled his head to the side. His plants seemed to mock him.

“What’re you lot lookin’ at?” he shouted at them, his cheek smashed and vying with the alcohol to slur his words. The atrium’s leaves began to quake, and he huffed at them. “’s not about the sex,” he mumbled to them dejectedly. “I don’t even like sex tha’ much.” Their leaves shook on. “’s sticky.” 

Crowley made a face, and in doing so, spotted the scotch bottle just near his eyebrow with glee. Crowley tried to lift his head to have another go at it, then upon realizing that his neck had given up and stopped working, miracled up a ridiculously long bendy straw. (Hell could kiss his ass; he wasn’t working for them anymore. If he wanted a bendy straw, he could damn well miracle himself a bendy straw.) He plunked it down into the neck of the bottle with some difficulty, his arms fighting to stop working as well, then slurped away at it. He’d be passed out there before the end of the bottle—it was only his fourth one, after all—and he was okay with that. 

“’s better than tha’ dumb angel,” he sloshed, scotch pouring out of his mouth as he spoke. He’d forgotten to swallow, or maybe had forgotten how straws work exactly. Either way, he was now face-down in a puddle of scotch, and honestly, he was okay with that, too. Still better than that dumb angel. 

He was almost completely gone to the dark oblivion when his phone started ringing in his pocket. He grunted. 

“Go away,” he told it, blowing huffily at the puddle of scotch. It splashed right back up at him, and his phone didn’t cooperate either. He was tempted to just let it ring. He was drunk and in a snakely state of existence as it were. He could slink right to the floor. 

The thought struck him as a grand idea. 

Snakes didn’t need necks anyway. Or arms for that matter. With an exhale, he felt himself shift into a snake, his body trembling until his arms molded to him and his belly scales scratched against the edge of the table. He tried to move, to slither away over a heating vent or under the refrigerator or some otherwhere warm, but he just folded in on himself and slid down, wedged in between the chair he had been previously sitting in and the leg of the table. 

_Oh no,_ he thought with a stab of dread and giggly hysteria. _I’m_ all _neck now._

* * *

He woke up a while later, as it were, with a spectacular crick in his neck and someone rapping at the door. He was almost too sore to move, still folded upward in his serpentine state between the chair and table. Even so, he felt a little more sober—after all, his snake liver was the largest organ in his body, about time it did some actual work—so that he was able to maneuver himself out of his position. He was glad, too. He didn’t even want to think about what his spine would have done had he been in his human-shaped form. 

Once he was clear of the table, he rose up and had arms again, the useless things. But on the plus side, with opposable thumbs he could rip open the door and tell whoever was pounding away at it to _bugger off, for Someone’s sake!_ Crowley had every intention of doing just that, but when he hauled the door open, the words died on his lips. Aziraphale stood looking panic-stricken just outside of the threshold to Crowley’s apartment. Crowley felt himself sober even more. 

“Angel?” he asked, and before he could get another word out, Aziraphale was flinging himself at Crowley, wrapping his arms around his neck. Crowley swayed backward. Maybe not as sober as he’d thought. Surely would not be when Aziraphale left. That was his routine, after all. Anytime the angel touched him, he mentally flogged himself for the past six thousand years of pining and drowned himself in alcohol. Aziraphale had taken his hand that afternoon on the park bench. A handshake to switch back, a too-soft look at the Ritz, and Crowley had ended up a snake wedged between a chair and a hard place. 

Imagine what sort of state he’d be in, later, what with Aziraphale clinging to him like that. Not that he wasn’t savoring every second of it, even as he stood with one hand clinging to the door handle and the other frozen in midair. 

“I was so worried,” Aziraphale said into his neck, his voice positively shaking, then all at once moved away. Crowley found his thoughts worked better when Aziraphale wasn’t breathing into his soft spot. Which was a blessing and a curse, because with clear thoughts, he knew something was wrong. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked gravely, and the angel, now standing back nearly outside of the apartment, clasped his hands tightly in front of him. 

“Well,” Aziraphale began, knuckles white. He wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. Then Crowley remembered. He’d broken his glasses, chunked them somewhere. No wonder the angel wouldn’t look at him. He miracled another pair and slid them over his face, irritated and not at all sad. 

“Spit it out, angel,” he said a little roughly, and Aziraphale flinched. Crowley sighed, frustrated now with himself. He tried to smooth it. “Should we be diving for hellfire or holy water, here?” _Nice job_ , Crowley hissed at himself. Aziraphale met his eyes, shook his head. He looked…he looked almost embarrassed. 

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“Well, then what, angel?” Crowley asked again. He tried for a softer tone. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that Crowley was in lo—in the state he was in. Aziraphale had made the boundary perfectly clear. _You go too fast for me, Crowley_. He’d made it clear. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault Crowley flinched every time he thought about that night. (He’d gotten drunk _that_ night too, that’s for damn sure.) 

“It’s just,” Aziraphale said, then burst, “You didn’t answer my call!” The angel stared at him in earnest, and Crowley stared back, dumbfounded. 

“And?!” Crowley barked after a moment, his volume fueled more by surprise that any real irritation. He still had his hand on the doorknob, blocking the way. He supposed he should invite Aziraphale in, but he was still jumbled by Aziraphale’s mouth brushing against his skin. All he could do was shout, “I don’t answer the one time you ring me, and you come pounding on my door and nearly bowl me over?” 

“I was worried about you!” Aziraphale said back, and yes, Crowley could see it in his eyes. He’d been worried about Crowley, and there Crowley was, yelling at him for it. _Nice job,_ he hissed at himself again. No wonder Aziraphale didn’t want to be with him. Aziraphale continued, “And your lot tried to put you in a holy-water dunk tank less than twenty-four hours ago, and I’m not ready to lose you, Crowley.” Crowley flinched. 

He couldn’t even be angry at Aziraphale. The poor bastard had no idea how much words like that cut into him. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, seeing Crowley’s recoil. “But I’m not ready.” Crowley nodded. He’d heard that rejection before. Heard it in his mind every time he was _almost_ ready to take another step towards the angel. 

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, because that was their dance, right? Crowley stepped toward Aziraphale, Aziraphale stepped away, Crowley moved to the side and tried to make up for stepping over the line. He couldn’t even resent Aziraphale, either. He’d tried—cue his decade-long nap—but Crowley didn’t want to make Aziraphale feel a certain way about him or guilt him into it. He’d step to the side. Here was his sidestep, “If it means anything, I didn’t mean to miss your call.” Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up to him, and Crowley saw a break of forgiveness. It urged a small smile out of Crowley. “I was completely sloshed.”

“Arms stop working?” Aziraphale asked, a smile coming to his lips. Crowley wasn’t proud of putting it there, damn it. 

He nodded. 

“Then I turned into a snake,” he said.

“No arms to bother with then, I suppose,” Aziraphale said, offering a small shrug of his shoulder. 

“See, that was my thought too!” Crowley flung his hands up in excitement. Damn this dumb angel and how he just _understood._ “Would you like to come in? I’ve got more scotch.” Aziraphale peeked over his shoulder.

“Only if you’ve got another bendy straw to boot,” he said, teasing, and Crowley rolled his eyes, waved him in. 

As they walked through the atrium towards Crowley’s pantry, he suddenly remembered what he’d told his plants. _‘s not about the sex,_ he’d slurred to them. His cheeks went suddenly very hot, and before they could get all uppity in their knowingness, he kicked his foot out against one of his planters in the most inconspicuous way he could manage. Aziraphale cut him a look of inquiry, and Crowley cleared his throat. 

“Hey, where do you reckon my phone goes when I go snake?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Or my clothes, for that matter.” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully as they moved out of the atrium. 

“I rather suppose I’ve never thought of it,” he answered, pursing his lips a bit. Crowley wanted to die right there. He wished the plants were still nearby to kick. 

“I go snake, and they go poof. And when I come back, everything’s right where it should be.” He was rambling. Damn plants. He patted his left pocket, and coins jingled. “Eighty-three pence, Bentley keys.” Moved to his back pocket. “Cell phone, wallet.” Thank Satan they were by the pantry. Crowley pulled it open and hung his head inside. “Poor bloke,” he muttered, reaching for the scotch. 

“What’s that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked from where he rummaged for tumblers. Crowley felt himself flush and turned around with as close to a mischievous grin as he could muster. 

“I called you a poor bloke,” he lied. “This scotch isn’t aged properly. It’s going to burn a bit, I’m afraid.” It would not, in fact, burn at all. Crowley’s scotch was perfectly aged, always was. In a decanter and everything. Aziraphale offered him a small smile. 

“Not as much as the hellfire would have,” he answered, and Crowley huffed. 

“Surprised you’re joking about that,” he said, tugging out the stopper of the decanter and pouring a few fingers down into the glasses Aziraphale held out to him. When he was done, he set the bottle to the side and snapped his fingers. Two bendy straws materialized in their tumblers, and Aziraphale laughed. Again, just for clarification, Crowley wasn’t proud of putting it there. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley shrugged. They leaned against his kitchenware, facing each other. Too far apart. 

“What’s a miracled bendy straw or three?” he asked with an easy smile. He did, however, hold the straw away with his finger as he took a swallow. It was slapstick, and slapstick was fun, but he had to look dignified in front of his angel. 

Besides, he didn’t trust the straws, not after finding himself facedown in a puddle of scotch earlier. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to feel the same about the straw. His lips wrapped around it, and Crowley felt fit to discorporate. Especially with Aziraphale refusing to take his eyes off Crowley. The worst part was, he wasn’t being sultry at all, just drinking scotch through a bendy straw with one hundred percent genuineness. It killed him. 

“Not for the straw,” Aziraphale said after he’d swallowed down his sip. “I never thanked you for saving me.”

“Which time?” Crowley teased, but he felt hot. He swallowed the rest of his scotch. Poured some more. 

“Oh, yes, rather,” Aziraphale said, and when Crowley’s eyes flicked up to Aziraphale, he looked sad. Crowley wanted to kick himself. He’d gone and done it again. 

“I’m just teasing, angel. You saved me, too, you know,” he said, but Aziraphale still looked far away. 

“You’re right though. I don’t suppose I ever thanked you, did I? I just assumed you’d be there. You’ve always been there for me.” That’s what you get when a demon pines over you for six thousand years.

“Startlingly handsome gum on your shoe,” Crowley said with a winning grin. Aziraphale smiled at Crowley.

“Startlingly handsome, yes, but you’ve always been such a nice friend to me,” Aziraphale said, still smiling at him, but he could see the layer of hurt still. Crowley hated himself. And he was frazzled. Aziraphale had called him handsome.

“I hate that word,” he sneered, took another swallow. _Friend,_ he thought with disgust. It was just another way Aziraphale gently reminded of the boundary firmly in place between them. As though Crowley could ever forget.

“I know, I know. Nice is a four-letter word with you,” Aziraphale said, and his smile became a little more genuine. “But thank you for saving me. Past and present.” Aziraphale offered another smile, and Crowley finished his scotch. Poured some more and topped Aziraphale’s off.

“The only thing I’m presently saving you from is another night of slow asthma development in that dusty shop of yours.” Crowley took a swallow and bared his teeth with the inhale. It didn’t burn. Not the scotch anyway. Aziraphale standing so close? Well, that was another matter. Another matter entirely when Aziraphale set his drink aside, reached out, and threaded his fingers with Crowley’s around his glass. Crowley’s skin seared. 

Now he’d have to finish the whole Someone-damned pantry. A hug and a handhold? He was going to be passed out for weeks. Aziraphale moved their hands and the glass to the counter. The space between them suddenly seemed less. 

“I mean it, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. He brought his other hand up and cupped Crowley’s jaw, index finger brushing over the scaled snake in front of his ear. Crowley’s breath caught. It was easier. Without breathing, he didn’t need to smell every strand of Aziraphale-soaked tartan clinging to the angel, every sweet breath. “Thank you,” Aziraphale said. Then he leaned in slowly and pressed a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley’s chest ached. He didn’t know how the angel could be so cruel and miss his cheek. He stayed rigid as Aziraphale pulled away. He wouldn’t move, wouldn’t kiss him, wouldn’t hurt the angel more and more and more. 

Then the hand around his unclenched and the hand on his cheek moved up until they were slowly sliding off Crowley’s glasses and setting them down on the counter next to their abandoned glasses. He could have stopped him. But it was too devastating. 

The angel wanted his glasses off. Wanted him to be as stripped and raw as possible. 

No, that wasn’t fair. Aziraphale wasn’t being cruel. He didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. 

He was just thoughtless sometimes. Missed by a centimeter when kissing his cheek in thanks. 

Crowley didn’t miss the look of pain in Aziraphale’s face as he locked eyes with Crowley, slits shifting uneasily. Even without meaning to, just by purely being what he was, he was hurting Aziraphale. Then Aziraphale’s hands came back up to rest on Crowley’s cheeks. Crowley held his breath as Aziraphale leaned in again. He was surely going to miss his cheeks with his hands covering them the way they were. Then he realized. Aziraphale was going to kiss him.

Crowley ripped away from Aziraphale.

“Stop it, angel,” he said harshly. His hands shook as he tore his glasses up off the counter. He was across the kitchen before there felt a far enough distance between them. “I get it, you’re grateful. You don’t have to, have to _kiss me_ for it.” 

“Crowley, I,” Aziraphale croaked, and Crowley knew if he looked at him, he’d hate himself even more. He could already hear the hurt. He knew Aziraphale wasn’t trying to guilt him, but damn it, he felt guilty. He would have accepted Aziraphale’s kiss, savored in it, raptured in it, let it eat him alive, and Aziraphale would have just whored himself away to show Crowley his appreciation. Crowley paced frantically. 

Why did he think that Crowley couldn’t accept a thank you like a normal person— _being_ , whatever!—a card? A cute little muffin basket? No, the angel had to cut straight to what he knew Crowley wanted most. Which wasn’t fair to either of them, to Aziraphale for feeling obligated to kiss him, or to Crowley for being kissed out of a mere obligation. 

“You know it isn’t fair, angel,” Crowley said hotly. He thought he might catch the flat on fire. Heat seared him all over. Even with the glasses, even with the alcohol, he felt too exposed. He was bloody cold-blooded; how could he feel so hot?! 

“Crowley, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was thick. Crowley felt the lash whip out at himself. He was too hot to think, to apologize to Aziraphale for hurting him _again._

“I need a minute,” he said before tearing out of the kitchen. He dared any of the plants in the atrium to laugh at him. 

He didn’t know where he was going. He just needed to breathe for a second. Needed air and darkness and the cold of winter and a place to hide. He snapped his fingers, and the wall opposite his front entry shifted into a lovely replica of the French doors at the Ritz. He ripped them open and stepped out onto his newly formed balcony. 

The air had an immediate effect on him. He didn’t even need to breathe. Why was he suddenly gasping for it? He clung to the rails, asked himself how he could be so bloody stupid. He’d spent so long trying to stay behind Aziraphale’s boundary line. He’d only wanted Aziraphale to be happy. And he kept fucking it up, over and over and over and over and etc.. That was his mountain now. Fucking hurting Aziraphale. 

He put his head in his hands. 

He didn’t know how to make an apology big enough. 

He didn’t know how long he’d stood out there. A lot of air passed through his lungs though, cooled his skin. Calmed him a bit. Just as he thought he’d gathered enough nerve to go back in and face Aziraphale, he saw a blonde halo floating above a tartan back hurrying down the street below. 

“Aziraphale,” he called, panic creeping into him. Aziraphale stiffened at Crowley’s voice, hesitated, didn’t turn. Kept walking. “Aziraphale, wait!” Crowley turned to chase after him, then turned to see if Aziraphale had stopped—he hadn’t—then called again. “Angel! Please!” He ran back through the new French doors and skittered down the stairs. “Bloody wait,” he panted as he ran down, not that Aziraphale could hear him.

When he burst onto the street, he spun, trying to orient himself. Down the street, he saw Aziraphale hurrying along, trying desperately to hail a taxi. As he ran for Aziraphale, he dared any one of those bastard cabbie drivers to stop for his angel. 

“Angel, please,” he called, panic fueling his sprint. He half expected to see Aziraphale break into a run to escape him, and though Crowley wouldn’t have blamed him in the slightest, they both knew who was the faster, God—Sat— _Someone_ love the pudgy angel.

Aziraphale himself looked panicked as Crowley skidded to a stop in front of him. He hated seeing Aziraphale look so stricken because of him. 

“I’m so sorry, angel,” Crowley said in a rush. The panicked look puzzled away from Aziraphale.

“ _You’re_ sorry?” he asked, incredulous. Crowley scoffed.

“Yeah, none taken,” he said, searching desperately for something else to cling to besides the raw cutting of his chest. 

“No, I mean… _why?_ ” Aziraphale asked, clutching his hands together again. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that,” Crowley said, staring at Aziraphale. The moonlight turned his hair a pure, soft white. It wasn’t fair at all. 

“But,” Aziraphale started, and Crowley, determined not to have another encounter like that at his front door an hour earlier, waited patiently for him to continue. “But you had every right to!” Aziraphale said finally, stunning Crowley. He tried to remember. Had he? He was pretty sure he’d only been yelling because of how damn angry his feelings for Aziraphale made him. “I should never have tried to kiss you like that. I just…well, I suppose I thought you wanted me to.” 

“I did,” Crowley said, his brows furrowing together, voice lilting like a question. “I mean, I do. Generally speaking. I mean, sometimes you can be a real bastard, and then—” Aziraphale cut him off. 

“Then why were you upset?” he asked, more perplexed than angry, but there was a ghost of accusation anyway. Crowley supposed that was fair. Still riled him up, demon and all. (It was easier to blame it on being a demon than to admit the angel made him a little crazy.)

“You know why, angel,” Crowley said with a sigh of his own irritation. “You know how I feel about you.” How he’s felt about him since the creation of time, actually. Poor bloke. 

“Actually, I rather think I don’t,” Aziraphale said, annoyance growing more prominent in his voice. 

“Oh, come off it, angel. Of course you do! That’s why you tried to kiss me! You were trying to say thank you and thought it was what I wanted.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re yelling!” Aziraphale answered, his volume pitching up to match Crowley’s unconscious decibel increase. 

“Because you shouldn’t kiss me because you feel like you owe me something! I’ve been waiting six thousand years for you, angel, I can bloody well wait until you’re ready!”

“What part of me trying to kiss you did you mistake for my not being ready?!” Aziraphale asked, still yelling, surging out and gripping Crowley’s cheeks again. The fight slid out of Crowley. He stared at Aziraphale, mouth agape. Crowley spun around in his brain. 

“Well,” he said. It was hard to think with Aziraphale’s hands on his cheeks. 

“Spit it out, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said softly. His fingers trembled against Crowley. Very hard to think indeed. 

“You called me your friend,” Crowley said finally, _a-ha!_ rampant in his voice. “That’s the most angelic type of rejection there is.”

“You _are_ my friend, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. The way his fingers brushed over Crowley’s cheeks made it very hard to interpret as his usual angelic rejection, even though the words were the same. “My very best friend, with whom I also happen to be in love. So, I’m afraid I’m going to need more than that if you don’t want me to kiss you,” Aziraphale said, a smile brushing across those lips. 

Crowley, stumbling over those words, _in love,_ had nothing more than that.

Aziraphale kissed him. Soft. Insistent. And Crowley savored in it, raptured in it, let it eat him alive from his very core. Then Aziraphale pulled away gently, but Crowley had gathered him against his chest and was not letting him get far. He leaned in and kissed the angel again, softer. A weaving of lips then a resting of foreheads. A smile flickered at Aziraphale’s lips. Crowley kissed it. 

“In my defense,” Crowley said, pulling away suddenly, his arms still a vise around Aziraphale’s middle. The angel’s fingers skimmed over Crowley’s cheekbones, and the thought he’d been having drifted away for a moment. Very, very hard to think. “In my defense, you called me handsome, and I am easily frazzled.” Crowley grimaced as the thought finished. It hadn’t been really what he’d intended to say. True, fine, he’ll admit it, but embarrassing. The way Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed more than made up for it. He was radiant so close. He was suddenly glad for his glasses, otherwise, he might have been smote right on the sight of him. Plus, they hid some of the blush creeping up his cheeks. They did, damn it! 

“I’ll remember that,” Aziraphale said, his eyes twinkling, and Crowley sighed, bringing their mouths back together for the briefest of moments, barely fighting a smile. “But you were wrong, you know.”

“I’m not surprised. Have you met me?” Crowley answered, resting against Aziraphale, breathing him in. 

“Stop that,” Aziraphale insisted, pushing Crowley’s face a bit. They both smiled. Aziraphale shifted his hands and slowly slid Crowley’s glasses off, giving Crowley ample enough time to stop him if he’d wished. He folded them and tucked them gently into Crowley’s shirt pocket. When he looked up, Crowley saw no pain in Aziraphale’s eyes at the sight of Crowley’s. He let out a shaky breath. “You were wrong about saving me. You taught me how to _live,_ Crowley. How to love. You save me everyday from a life without you.” Aziraphale stared up at Crowley, who stared back down, no shield. Then Crowley unwound himself.

“Ngk,” he said, feigning disgust. “Cheesy,” but he took Aziraphale’s hand and led him back inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof, go easy on me. This is my first fic in a long time. 
> 
> P.S. I'd love to hear theories on the whole, where-do-Crowley's-belongings-go-when-he-goes-snake business. That was a genuine pondering.


End file.
